


Dreams

by BottlesAndBarricades



Category: BBC Ghosts, bbc ghost (2019)
Genre: Dreams, Memories, Reflection, life flashbacks sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:13:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22367737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BottlesAndBarricades/pseuds/BottlesAndBarricades
Summary: Can Ghosts Dream?
Comments: 2
Kudos: 52





	Dreams

‘Do you still dream?’ 

This out of the blue question took the Captain quite by surprise, everting his attention from the tv on which images of tanks and weapons of war played, over to Alison. Where she sat crossed legged on the bare wood floor, stripping years of old paint from the door to the master bedroom. She seemed to be putting very minimal effort into the task now as her mind was clearly wandering and she was more preoccupied with playing with random pieces of the flaked paint than making any actual head way in finishing the job. She was tired. Working alongside trying to renovate Button house was obviously taking its toll. 

‘Sorry?’ 

‘I know you, ghosts that is, sort of sleep. So, I was wondering if you sort of dream too?’ 

She was clearly getting bored if she wanted to get into the ins and outs of being a ghost. Alas the Captain decided to humour her, out of politeness if nothing else.

‘Some of us dream and some of don’t. A bit like when you’re living, I suppose.’ He explained, not wanting to get into too much detail because to be frank he felt a bit of fool talking about dreams and nonsense. What did it matter anyway? 

Alison seemed to contemplate this answer for a moment or two, satisfied. Good, he thought as he turned his attention back to the screen just in time for Hitler’s greatest war machines. 

‘Do you dream? Like you personally?’ 

The Captain took a long breath. Well not really, but you know. He’d never been known for being a particularly tolerant person. Easily irritated and very short tempered. He preferred to think of it as fiery and being of strong character, but that was beside the point. He didn’t like idle chatter. Mainly because it served no purpose and he wasn’t very good at it. Though certain people would strongly disagree with that. 

‘No, I don’t’ his tone was slightly harsher than he had intended but seemed to fulfil the requirements of the inquiry. As he glanced to see Alison, looking slightly disappointed go back to stripping the door. 

It was in fact a lie. He didn’t like lying or dishonesty of any kind, but he was also old enough and wise enough to know that lying was sometimes necessary and sometimes harmless. He did dream, but he felt that was a rather silly discussion to have. He was also aware that if he had told Alison that he did indeed dream she would have probably probed further into what he dreamed about and he really didn’t want to get into all that. Especially with someone he hardly knew. 

Throughout his life he had learned that keeping personal things to yourself was best. Keeping it inside keeps it safe. No one can use it against you. You can control the image of you that everyone sees. He liked that control because no matter how turbulent he felt inside sometimes, he knew people saw what he wanted them to see: a soldier, a leader, a Captain.  
What happened in those hours of conscious unconsciousness was his business. Dreaming was his only escape from this house, this plane of existence. When ghosts dream, they relive. There is no new fantasy, only memories. After all they have no brain and therefore no subconscious. Ultimately, they are just memories. Memories and energy, which for some unknown reason lingered on. 

The Captain like his memory dreams. They made him feel less alone. Although he had the company of the other ghosts in the house and had over time grown fond of one or two of his spectral companions, he missed his family, his friends and his life. 

Sometimes he dreamt of home, of his parents – his mother singing him to sleep when he was small and scared of the dark. The smell of the scones she used to bake and the pattern she had embroidered on her favourite handkerchief. The sound of his father’s laugh which rang throughout their house, the smell of brandy and pipe smoke. That glint in his eye as he told his sons a naughty joke. He’d been so happy then. So carefree, so young. 

He dreamt of his big brother often, of the summers which seemed to last forever. Of adventures and mischief. In the days when the sun warmed his skin and the wind whipped his hair. It seemed an age ago, from the time when he could run across the fields, swim in the streams and laugh so hard that his sides hurt. Back when his joints didn’t ache, and he didn’t feel so tired. 

His army days were also fond memories he liked to revisit. They allowed him to revel in the feeling of usefulness and pride he had felt during his service. He loved the structure of the army, the feeling of being part of something bigger than himself. The thing he loved the most was the comradery, being brothers in arms. After losing his own brother so suddenly and so early on, I guess you could say he was just looking for something to fill the void. To distract from the occasional aching in his chest and the sting in the corners of his eyes he felt if he thought about it too much. No point dwelling.

Turned out keep focused and don’t feel too much didn’t work out too well. Although the army had been stiff upper lip strictness, it had also exposed him to society. To dancing, drinking, smoking and fun. He secretly loved dancing and by all accounts he was quite a mover. When the band struck up, he’d feel the urge, but only make it on to the floor once he’d got plenty of Dutch courage. Smoking would also help calm his nerves and quell the anxieties he never seemed to fully shake. God what he would do for one last cig. 

Memories of romance and love were not something he’d ever confess to being struck with, but they were probably some of his most relived of all. Although he had a long struggle with his sexuality and coming to terms with himself, he had. Even if the rest of the world didn’t like it. In his early days of being dead he had wondered if being the way he was, was in fact the reason he was doomed to stay in limbo. Eventually he shook this nonsense idea as it made no sense and he was nothing if a logical man. 

Many nights he dreamed of love, stolen kisses and fevered, passionate encounters. Of the men who had shaped his life, shaped him as a person. From the passing fancies to the long-term romances. Feelings that had made his heartbeat that little bit faster and caught his breath in his throat. There was one particular one, which brought a mixed bag of emotion. Some call it ‘the one’ and he didn’t think he believed in such fairy tale idealistic rubbish, but on later reflection, that had been the one. The love of his life. The one that still sent a tingle up his spine and made him want to smile with just the thought of him. He missed him, he ached for him. He wondered what happened after he died; did he miss me too? Did he ache for me like I ache for him? Did he feel this all-consuming pain of not being able to say goodbye? Of not being able to say I love you so much once more.

There were bad memories too, of course there were and occasionally without warning a particularly nasty image he had long repressed would rear its ugly head. Along with the sort of emotions and pain which made your stomach lurch and your head hurt. Thing is with being a ghost, you feel emotions with much more intensity than you did when you were alive because you are the embodiment of your emotions. Which for pleasant memories is ethereal, but for bad memories the purest agony. 

His memories were all he had left of the person he was. They were what helped him get by and cope with the reality of being stuck, never being able to move on. If you’re destined to linger on, you’ve got to find things to pass the time. Just more distractions to fill the void and keep the aches at bay.


End file.
